Homecoming: An Ingathering Homiletta

Rev. Peter A. Friedrichs

September 10, 2006

Essayist Scott Russell Sanders writes that "A house is a garment, easily put off or on, casually bought and sold; a home is skin. Merely change houses and you will be disoriented; change homes and you bleed." I'm happy to report that no actual blood was shed this summer, save for a few skinned knuckles, as Irene and I moved from Maine to Media. But I can tell you that, no matter how excited we were to be coming here, leaving our home in Maine was a gut-wrenching process that included more than a few tears. As you might suspect, I spent a good deal of time this summer thinking about home. Moving from the house that we built nearly 20 years ago, leaving the familiar for the unknown, saying good bye to long-time friends and neighbors, was more than a physical journey for me. As we sorted through the clothes and toys and all the other accumulations of the past two decades, I was compelled to confront the question "What makes a home?" How, I asked myself, did this place of wood and sheetrock, of tile and shingles, this physical structure built on this particular piece of land, become my home? When did this transformation occur? And what will it take to make the place we were moving to more than just a place to rest our heads?

The poet Robert Frost wrote that "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." At first glance, this is a rather dour and pessimistic view of home. "When you have to go there, they have to take you in." There's an element of coercion to that phrase that makes me uncomfortable. It sounds like you don't have a choice about going home, and those at home don't have a choice about taking you in. It makes home sound like a place you don't really want to go, to see people you don't really want to see, and who don't care much about seeing you either. It conjures up thoughts of stress-filled Thanksgiving dinners at Grandma's house, where Uncle Lou isn't talking to Aunt Betty for the fifth year in a row, and the tension is as thick as the mashed potatoes and the gravy.

But in another, very real sense, Frost's definition of home has a feeling of certainty to it. What Frost is saying, I think, is that you know that you can always go home, no matter what the circumstances. Frost's home isn't so much a building or a structure; it's a feeling, an emotion. It's a welcoming, an acceptance, no matter who you are or what the circumstances. Frost is saying, I think, that homes are created when hearts and arms are opened, when we are nourished, supported and restored by each other. Wherever that happens to any of us, we are home.

Three critical elements are embedded in this concept of home. One is that a home is a place of community, a place where you live in relationship with others. Those others can be your partner, your spouse, your children, or they can be close friends, confidantes and compatriots. But if "home is the place that, when you go there, they have to take you in," there must be someone or something with whom you are in relationship. This is not to say that those of us living alone are "homeless" because we are by ourselves, for even when we live on our own we're still in relationship, and we carry those relationships with us wherever we go. The essential ingredient here, I think, is the connection that we experience with another and the sense of belonging that that connection engenders.

The second element embedded in Frost's definition of home is the concept of acceptance. For you to be truly home, you must not only be in relationship with others, but those others must take you as they find you, they must love you for who you are. Home is a place where you can, figuratively and literally, let your hair down, where you can drop all pretenses and be yourself without fear of judgment or rejection. Home, therefore, is a place of trust and mutual respect, where you are valued for your inherent gifts and you're not expected to measure up to some standard that others impose on you.

By Frost's definition, our church is a home, and our ingathering today is a sort of homecoming. Whether or not you attended services all summer long, you knew that today the doors to our church would be opened wide, taking in all who showed up on our doorstep. As a community, we are the place that, when you have to come here - when you've had a hard week or you've reached the end of your rope - no matter who you are - what your personal theology or your political beliefs may be - we'll take you in. Like home, we are a place of comfort and solace, a place of lively discussion, a place of questions and challenges and warm, friendly faces. Here we strive to create the best home that we can, where we build relationships of deep meaning with each other, and where we accept one another, warts and all. And I would submit that if we hold fast to this picture of the church as a home, where we work together to maintain these elements of association and acceptance, we will not only weather the conflicts that undoubtedly will arise, but we will emerge from them an even stronger and more vibrant community.

But let me also say this. Home is not just a place to come to. Home is also a place to be from, to move out of. It's both a nest from which we fly and a base of operations to which we periodically return. The remaining ingredient in Frost's definition of home is one of "going out," for if we never leave home, then we cannot return.

While we are always welcome at home, we cannot, we must not, stay at home. Because being at home is safe, it's comfortable, and it keeps us separate from those who are different from us, those who may need us. Home should be the place that provides us with the physical, psychic and spiritual support we need to go out into the world, to find our way, and to make a difference. We take the lessons we learn at home with us on our travels. They inform our perspective and we, in turn, influence others. It is only by moving out of our home that we claim our place in society, that our voice is heard and that we can make a difference. Our community of faith, this home of ours, is a sanctuary for certain. It is a place we can come to feel loved and accepted. But it is also a place from which we must move outward, touching others, getting involved. We are a justice-making people, and whether we venture forth from home with timid and reluctant steps or in great, bold strides, venture forth we must.

And upon returning home, we find that we are different from when we left. And, in this returning, we transform home itself. As such, home is not a static place. It grows and moves and flows with us as we do the same. Although its contours and outlines may remain familiar, the things that make a place home - the people inside it - change. While we may long for the home of our past and our fond memories, in returning we find that it is never exactly the same as it once was. There are new faces around the table, and some we hope to see are no longer there. Our spiritual home changes and evolves in the same way. Look around you. You may see people you've never met, or you may notice that a familiar face is missing. And yet, despite these and countless other changes, or perhaps because of them, this is still home. Our home, our blessed, sacred, wonderful, warm, changing, growing, challenging, and inviting home.

Welcome home.

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